HDCLSSRS Ch 120

Chapter 120 The Spirit Core (1)

The tavern master snarled, veins bulging.

“So—you dare look down on me? Very well, if the two of you wish to die as brothers, I’ll grant you that wish!”

But Seong Muyeon gave him no time to prepare. His sword thrust immediately for the pouch clutched in the man’s hand.

“Urk!”

The tavern master twisted aside easily, then drew from beneath his long robe a heavy gokdo⁽¹⁾—a short, thick-bladed saber, curved cruelly.

Muyeon pressed on without qi, relying only on his own physical strength. This left the tavern master unable to stash the pouch away—one hand gripped the saber, the other clung to the prize, barely keeping up with Muyeon’s flurry.

“That all you’ve got?”

Deprived of qi, his sword posed little threat to one like the tavern master, hardened by years in back-alleys.

And yet, in the midst of it, Muyeon felt a faint stirring of exhilaration.

Yakseon was right.

His crippled meridians bound his internal strength, but his flesh itself was sound. As she had told him—whether he strained himself or not, the illness would gnaw on regardless. Better to fight upright than waste away cowering. A strong vessel might leak, but it would not shatter with the first crack.

To Mujai’s surprise, his brother fought far better than expected. Roused, Mujai gritted his teeth and joined in.

“Can’t let my younger brother surpass me!”

Perhaps struck by Muyeon’s resolve, his strikes were tighter, his movements cleaner. Now the two brothers pressed together, driving the tavern master back.

“Have you forgotten I am sworn brother to you, Seong Mujai?” the tavern master spat.

But Mujai only laughed through clenched teeth. “Ha! In our family, fratricide is tradition—you should have known.” His sword lunged savagely.

The tavern master caught it just in time. His saber’s heavy curve locked around Mujai’s slim blade, yanking it askew. Mujai almost lost his balance entirely.

“Careful! That sword will snap!” Muyeon barked.

Unused to such flimsy blades—Ghostslayers’ thin longswords forged for speed, not endurance—Mujai faltered, growing hesitant. The momentum tilted back toward the tavern master.

“Brother!”

Their lack of harmony showed. Again and again Mujai tripped him, stomped his foot, as if sabotaging him outright.

“I said, I understand!” the elder roared back—but no matter how they tried, their rhythm refused alignment.

“Demonic princes? Hah! You’re nothing but paper tigers!”

The tavern master’s taunts rang out. His body warmed, his bladework grew freer—his edge returning while Mujai’s strength already faded.

Then it came—his saber slashed Mujai’s shoulder.

“Kuhk!”

Mujai managed to block in time—but the thin sword gave way under the strain, shattering to shards. It had been forged for quick strikes, not to withstand such brute force.

“I’m fine!” Mujai rasped, backing away, one hand on his bleeding shoulder. But the blade left in his grip was now no more than a broken stub. He hurled it aside and, scrambling desperately, seized whatever objects lay about the chamber—pots, candlesticks, hurling them in vain. Each shattered upon the thick saber.

“Annoying…” the tavern master growled.

But it kept him distracted. Muyeon sidestepped slash after slash. They were slow—clumsy, no meaningful threat, yet his blade too could not pierce through.

Rolling clear of a blast of inner force, Muyeon’s teeth clenched. Like this, it won’t do. Our weapons won’t last. We can’t win a stand-up fight against a sturdier blade. The longer this drags, the worse for us.

“Uwaagh!”

Mujai screamed as a shockwave hurled him off balance, the curved saber arcing for his chest.

“Damn it!”

Without a thought, Muyeon plunged his sword between them.

Clang!

The saber shattered his blade into fragments, but its arc glanced off, sparing Mujai by a hair. Mujai staggered back to safety, gasping.

All Muyeon held was a useless hilt. With regret he flung it away.

“Now what? With no weapons, you are prey.”

Despite his sweat, the tavern master smirked confidently.

Then Muyeon glimpsed the broken shards of blade lying about.

“You think to fight me with scraps, boy?”

Laughing manically, the tavern master shook the pouch—and in that moment, Muyeon snatched up a broken stub and flung it.

“…Eh?”

It pierced not man but cloth—the pouch—and pinned it to the distant wall. Jerked free from his hand, its weight swung against the wood, dangling out of reach.

“Rats!”

The tavern master cursed. Yet he sneered anyway. “No matter. When you’re corpses, I’ll reclaim it easily enough.”

Blade lowered, he eyed them like cattle at slaughter.

The brothers exchanged a look. Worn, bleeding, covered in dust—and yet something wordless passed. Muyeon dipped his head. Mujai blinked once in assent. For the first time, they understood each other without words.

Muyeon charged first.

“Fool! Throwing your life away?”

The tavern master’s saber rose to cleave him down.

But Muyeon slipped under, and—suddenly from behind—Mujai struck.

Eyes narrowed on Muyeon, the tavern master never saw it coming. Mujai clasped him from the flank, clutching his arm tight.

“Let go, you cur!”

Even as fists pummeled him, Mujai bit down on his arm, refusing to release. The man staggered, swinging wildly to break free.

And then—Muyeon leapt upon his back, choking tightly about his throat.

“Ghhk!”

His own face reddened with strain, veins bulging. The choke was true, but his strength uncertain against the thick neck. The tavern master seized Muyeon’s hair, wrenching. Both clawing at him—he faltered, his saber clattering free.

“Ergh!”

Who to throw off first? He heaved wildly, slamming his body to the ground. Muyeon crashed away, then Mujai was hurled headlong into a beam, crushing through into the wall. He collapsed limp.

“I’ll kill you both!” Bloodshot eyes, frothing breath—he groped again for his blade.

But Muyeon, chest heaving, booted it away across the floor.

“You… damn brat! I’ll start with you!”

He lunged, massive hands closing on Muyeon’s throat. The pressure crushed in. Windpipe, bone—it would all snap in an instant. His vision blurred, a tear sliding down his cheek.

So this is where it ends.

And he thought then of Ryeoil, fighting below. Ah… I promised him five bottles of Baekhwa⁽²⁾. Sorry, Master Baek. Another promise broken.

Would ryeoil hold resentment? No—no more than grumble. Likely he would burn incense, mutter a prayer for his soul.

Darkness closed.

Why should I die?

His eyes snapped open. Clarity pierced. Was he going to give up—when the others had shouldered so much already?

I haven’t lost my dantian. He has. I still have a choice. Live choking now, or live to choke later on my blood. Better later than now.

He reached inward, driving qi despite the pain.

And then—

DOONG!

The crash of a great bronze gong.

The tavern master’s hands slipped away, slackening.

“Khk—cough!”

Muyeon hacked, collapsing, gulps of pure air filling his lungs like divine nectar.

Tears clouded his gaze. Behind, he saw the tavern master’s eyes roll back as he collapsed.

And standing with chest heaving, clutching the enormous brass gong—was Seong Mujai.

Footnotes:

1. Gokdo (곡도/曲刀) – A thick curved saber, shorter than a sword but designed to hack heavily. Common in late Ming/Qing martial imagery.

2. Baekhwa-ro (백화로/百花露) – “Dew of a Hundred Flowers,” a fine rice liquor, referenced previously in their promise.